Demolition Lovers
by zhengjiamei
Summary: When fate declares that Voldemort win the war, Mudbloods are sent to Pureblood families as slaves… or else get sent to Azkaban. Strong-willed Hermione Granger refuses to be pushed around, especially not by her new masters. However, Fate decides to mock her once more as she gets sent to the Malfoys' lair… and more specifically, into the arms of one named Draco. AU.
1. Owned

**DISCLAIMER**: All characters and recognizable plot belong to the very lovely J.K. Rowling, without who this fic might not have been plausible. And without who, my time would have been wasted away doing nothing productive like study for school. And without who, the world of _Harry Potter_ would not have been created and we Potterheads would not know where we would be in right now. (Although I still am upset that Hermione ended up with Ron. Ew.)

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**SUMMARY: **_Draco is broken – he's become apathetic and destroyed his feelings. Vulnerability is an emotion he swears will never get under his skin again. He will rise from his exile and will once more be deserving of his name. When Hermione comes along, indifference crumbles. Disconnection to the world shatters. DEMOLITION LOVERS._

_Hermione is strong – Harry's untimely demise will not be the end of her war against evil. But trapped in the Malfoy manor with no one else but the heir for company, her ideals slowly dismantle. Faith is ruined. Goodness withers – especially when Draco himself subjects her to the most shameful degradation. DEMOLITION LOVERS._

_When fate declares that Voldemort win the war, Mudbloods are sent to Pureblood families to work as slaves… or else get sent to Azkaban. Strong-willed Hermione Granger refuses to be pushed around, especially not by her new masters. However, Fate decides to mock her once more as she gets sent to the Malfoys' lair – and more specifically, into the arms of one named Draco._

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**DEMOLITION LOVERS**

_These violent delights have violent ends…  
Romeo and Juliet_, William Shakespeare

**CHAPTER 1: Owned**

Fighting the pain is futile. Especially when you know you have nothing to fight for, when pain is everything you'll eventually have to know.

"Get off me!" Hermione Granger's raspy breaths left her mouth along with the loud profanities that flowed freely from it. She was literally burying both her feet into the soft soil of the grassy ground, hoping to plant them solidly into it so as not to let her captor drag her any further.

Hermione was quite the nocturnal being once, preferring to do most of her work during the night. She loved that it gave off a vibe of serenity and tranquility, but tonight, the night promised only doom and gloom with every shadow the clouds cast over the moon. The cold night air did nothing to alleviate her sense of misfortune, and so the last thing she could do to save herself was to show resistance, although she knew her efforts would be futile.

"You've got quite the sharp tongue, girly," said her toothless captor who reeked of filth and tobacco, as he released her manacles and turned to look at her. His sandy hair was matted to his forehead with perspiration because of the struggle and his face was almost indecipherable because of the soot that coated it, but despite his despicable appearance, a wild glint was present upon his dark eyes, making her shiver. His blackened hand shot out and hit her squarely across the cheek. "Shut up."

It was in her personality to hex the man for what he did, but she had no wand and could not do anything. With acute anger, she gritted her teeth at the onslaught.

Her curly hair whipped across her face, but she no longer felt the smarting sensation of having been slapped for she'd been quite acquainted with the pain, having experienced it all within the past few weeks since Voldemort won the war and she'd lost everything that was important to her. Physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional anguish she felt as she'd witnessed everyone die, from Muggles to Half-bloods, and even her friends from the Order. What was worse, she had not been fortunate enough to save her parents, or even to see them for one last time, because the next thing she knew the entire world's population was wiped out with a single curse and the world now revolved in only two races: the Purebloods and Mudbloods. Save for Voldemort, whom she knew to be a Half-blood.

It was then that she found herself wishing for one thing with all her heart: for her to have died along with the rest of them.

Her toothless captor grabbed onto her rusty manacles and was dragging her along again, to her designated house of doom.

She thought it pointless to let the Mudbloods continue on living, for she knew that Voldemort detested the race. But she'd later learned of the exact reason as to why Voldemort had chosen to utilize the Mudbloods listed at the Muggle-Born Registration Commission: for the likes of her to serve as slaves to the Purebloods. To serve as their indication that they were indeed higher than others, for how could they act all mighty around one another when they all were on the same step on the ladder of prominence? It was sickeningly ironic, Hermione thought, that Purebloods needed them to make them feel better about themselves. That they would need to trample on someone else's ego to boost their own.

She'd been assigned to slave for this particular Pureblood family who lived in England whom she didn't bother knowing the name of. After all, they were all the same anyway. She didn't expect that this family would treat her _indifferently_ (she'd given up all thoughts on fairness and kindness a long time ago) and even made a list of what she expected to come from this slavery: if she was lucky, she'd be the family's personal punching bag; if she was _fairly_ lucky, then she'd get verbal beating and wounding of her ego every single day of living with the Purebloods; and if she was _very, very_ lucky, then they'd have her do all the cooking and cleaning for the entire duration of her stay.

The thought of that improbability caused a great wave of despair and anguish build up at her core, right at her heart – because she somehow knew, on instinct, that she'd get the worst end of the stick.

And then, very suddenly, although it wasn't in her attitude to do so, Hermione gaped and unintentionally forgot about resistance.

The house she was being sent to – if you could even call it that, it was more of a _mansion_ – was huge, with wide windows that glowed faintly with light that came from its interior. It had a long, wide rolling front lawn that was thickly swathed with neatly-trimmed grass and on which there was a white marble fountain of a beautiful mermaid in the center. The entire house was made of polished stone and very tall – probably three or four stories high, at the very least. Undoubtedly, the family that lived here was _very_ well-off. The mansion's beauty did not completely obscure the fact that there was a formidable edge to it, though, and Hermione, as soon as feeling that edge, started resisting again.

Her captor cackled evilly. "Resisting now, eh? I'm sure you wouldn't, not after you see your new employer's son," he said, leering. "He's quite the handsome devil, that one. You'd beg not to be taken back after the year, I reckon. Once you've had a taste of him."

"Maybe you'd like to taste him _yourself_," Hermione bit back harshly before she could stop herself.

She'd expected this sort of reaction for her sharp response, but not the pain it entailed. Despite having been hit with the same spell for quite a number of times, her captor's _Crucio_ singed her veins and, just like all the other times, made her fall to her knees, every fiber and bone in her being grinding with the pain. Her lungs throbbed and threatened to burst open, and her limbs felt as though they might be ripped from her joint sockets. Still, throughout the pain, Hermione did not dare scream, choosing instead to bite her tongue so hard that she could taste the rusty blood on her palette. Silence was the best way she dealt with the curse, knowing that screaming would not do her any good.

The sharp pain of hair tugging at her scalp made her realize that the _Crucio_ was over and that she was on her hands and knees now. "Mudblood bitch," said the man darkly, emphasizing each word, as he sharply lifted her head up to look at her, straining the muscles on her neck.

Hermione's labored breaths left her mouth in large tumbles of gasps. "_Fuck_ you."

Godric save her, but she didn't know where her bravado (or stupidity) came from, living in this bleak and desolate world and knowing that there was no one out there who gave a damn about her.

Another round of _Crucio_ tore at her head, where the pain seemed to center on. Her brain pounded with the acute intensity of the spell and her eyes seemed to want to gouge out of their sockets of their own accord. Her resolve not to respond to the pain faltered slightly though, for a tiny squeak of pain issued from her strained lips.

"Kreuk, is that you?" someone sounded from the darkness.

The pain quickly vanished, leaving Hermione lying on her side upon the grassy front lawn, her teeth chattering and body drenched in perspiration. Her death was to come later, she decided, for another man's intervention had saved her from her ruthless captor. She was being dragged again (by her hair this time, her scalp burned with the pain) and was reluctantly on both feet, and she could hear him speak some to the other.

"Yes, it's me, my Lord. I've got your Mudblood here, my Lord."

"Bring her here," said the other, whose voice, Hermione noted, had a cool, icy undertone to it, as though this man was not one to shout, but fully capable of threatening and coercing.

Smooth, cool marble instantly replaced the trimmed grass of the lawn as they made to step in the mansion, and eventually down a set of wooden steps that undoubtedly led to the cellar. Hermione refused to look up despite her curiosity at who was to be her employer. Soon they arrived at a dimly lit room (the cellar), the only source of light coming from a single bulb that flickered right in the center of the room, casting a yellowish glow and ominous shadows around the room.

"I thought I requested for a _pretty_ Mudblood, Kreuk, not this dirty one." The man's tone was disdainful and condescending. Hermione's cheeks burned with humiliation and her blood boiled with anger. Her _dirty_ fingernails dug into the palms of her hands.

"But she _is_ pretty, my Lord, prettiest of the bunch, even." Kreuk's tone was sycophantic and it made her sick. "She was a bit of a struggle, though, my Lord. I had to literally drag her here. See that she gets cleaned up, my Lord, and you'll see – she's very pretty."

Hermione's spine prickled with the feeling of having her new superior appraise her. "Well, I suppose she'll have to do," said the man after a lengthy pause. "After all, you did say she's the prettiest."

She could almost envision Kreuk's chest swell with the knowledge that this man trusted him. "Oh, yes she is, my Lord."

Polished black shoes, the heels clacking upon the cobbled floor, circled Hermione's shaking frame. He took his time looking at her, as though she were a mere horse he was intending to buy. She bit back a growl that threatened to escape her curled lips and made to bite sharply at her lower lip instead, relishing in the pain it caused her.

The man's hand weaved through her brunette hair and jerked her head up, forcing her to look at him, and Hermione could not help but gasp at the familiarity of the man who "owned" her now, making her eyes as big and round as Galleons. There was no mistaking that ice blond hair, those wintry gray eyes, that pale skin, that pointed face –

_Draco Malfoy_ owned her now.

She prayed and prayed to all the deities she could think of that may he _please_ not recognize her.

"She does have beautiful amber eyes," mused Draco after assessment of her features, his gray eyes seeming confused with the stunned look Hermione had on hers. His eyes continued to roam her face before blinking slowly, somehow quite registering but still uncertain. Hermione's heart lurched to her throat and her stomach knotted with discomfort. "Wait a minute…"

He did not act immediately upon his suspicions, however, and instead made Kreuk leave first, throwing him a tiny satchel which seemed to be full of Galleons. Kreuk, with his sickening groveling, thanked the blond bastard over and over as soon as he caught it before completely leaving the room. With horror, Hermione realized that she was being exchanged for this sum of money, that she was worth even less than those measly Galleons.

As soon as Hermione was alone with the blond wizard, he weaved his hand swiftly through her hair again before she had a chance to protest and jerked her head up abruptly to make it catch the light a lot better. A gleeful, vindictive smile lit up the contours of his handsome face at the confirmation of his suspicion.

"Would you believe my luck!" he announced gaily, his voice dripping with malice. "My, my, my, who'd have thought you'd be degraded to this… _Granger_?"

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As much as I'd like to take credit for the freaking _AWESOME_ fic title, I can't. Credit goes to one of my favorite bands, **My Chemical Romance**. (Inspiration goes to the song as well.)

[A/N: I know this type of plot might be a little clichéd but my twisted little mind is on overdrive and will put its own twist to this one! So… let me know what you thought of this first chapter and please review. (Hope it was interesting enough to grab your attention! *fingers and toes crossed*) Thanks for reading! :) –Nina]


	2. Threatened

**CHAPTER 2: Threatened**

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Long years of being accustomed to Draco Malfoy's sneers and taunts taught Hermione the art of not letting his words get the better of her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said through clenched teeth, her voice strained from having her neck and head stretched too far behind.

Draco clucked his tongue in condescension, his gray eyes still shining with evil mirth. "Never took you for a liar, Granger."

"I'm not Granger," insisted Hermione, her tone firm and unwavering. Maybe if she could convince him that she wasn't Hermione Granger, he'd treat her fairly better – she could already feel the palpable sense of hard and difficult times ahead as she slaved for this particular family. It was so _obvious_ with the vindictive way he looked at her now…

But Draco's eyes only glinted more evilly, if that were possible. "You lie to your master again and I'll slap the shit out of you," he threatened.

Hermione sneered at that, her Gryffindor audacity taking better hold of her. She even actually _snorted_. "Feeling all mighty now that your species are on top of the priority ladder?" she mocked harshly before she could take a better hold on her tongue, discarding her previous resolve to conceal her identity. "You don't deserve to be anything, much less a 'master.' You're nothing but a filthy coward."

Danger flashed in those gray orbs before she felt the stinging sensation of having her hair pulled back to its extent. A small whimper escaped her tightly-pressed lips at the pain. "I see you're still your old delirious self, not knowing when to back down even when you know perfectly well you're at the losing end of the stick. Well, let me make it clear to you, Granger. In this den, you are my slave and YOU DO _NOT_ TALK TO ME THAT WAY." Draco's voice didn't fluctuate in the very least, but Hermione could still sense strong menace, the purest of the kind there was.

"I may be a slave," stated Hermione slowly, proudly, "but I refuse to be _anyone's_ slave."

"It's slavery for _me_… or get Kissed by Dementors." Draco smirked. "Your call, Mudblood."

His threat sent an unwelcome chill up and down the length of her spine. However, she refused to let fear flash in her eyes. "It's just my luck that I've come to slave for someone of your likes –"

In disbelief, Draco let out a bark of laughter. "What exactly are you trying to achieve by provoking me? I'll have you know that I could have you _Avada'd_ right now if I wished to."

"Can you? You couldn't do it even if your life depended on it, you bastard –"

That did the trick of irking Draco to the point wherein he showed a momentary loss of control. Grabbing Hermione by the hair, he shoved Hermione's body very easily – as though she were a rag doll – against the wall, her shoulder striking the concrete surface and issuing a sharp pain up and down her spine. The impact temporarily knocked the breath out of her lungs and made her fall on her knees down to the floor, her body sliding against the length of the wall.

Hermione tried to catch her breath and ease her heart of its thunderous beats. "Is that all you've got?" she whispered breathlessly to Draco as she looked up at him with revulsion, her vision slightly obscured by the stray strands of hair that hung loose at her eyes. "That wasn't even – a smidgen of the pain I've experienced in my entire life –"

Within seconds, Draco was crouching down next to her, his cool, minty breath washing over her perspiring and grimy face. He raised a hand to slap her once, twice, a third time, alternating between cheeks, and as soon as he was done he raised a finger to point it at her face. "Shut up," he said to her in a dangerously low voice. "You do NOT bring that subject up again, or I _will_ kill you, you got that?"

"Why? Voldemort's still furious with you, isn't he?" she countered heartlessly, pleased when something close to terror flashed in his carefully-circumspect eyes.

"You do not have _any_ right to speak of His name, you little Mudblood bitch," he spat out, "nor do you have any right to question your master. You are nothing but my slave, and you will _never_ be anything else."

"Then why waste your time arguing with me if I am, as you so eloquently put it, _nothing_?"

He suddenly grabbed a fistful of her hair again, bunching it in his hand and pulling her face very close to his until they were nose to nose, and that she could almost literally taste his scent on the tip of her palette. "I see you haven't lost that snippy little _tongue_ of yours, Granger." His eyes glinted wickedly. "Let's see where we could put _that_ to good use."

Despite her courageous front, Hermione's insides trembled at the images his innuendo constructed in her mind. Nervously, she licked her lips and felt her cheeks burn. "I – I'm not going to do it." Her voice trembled.

Malfoy arched a pale eyebrow. "Do what?"

Oh, like he didn't know! He was seriously embarrassing her further by forcing her to say it. "Pleasure you with – with –" she paused to swallow noisily, "– my tongue." Hermione thought she might faint from voicing out such an abhorrent thought.

He suddenly gave a barking laugh, one more filled with venom and malice than mirth. "Is that what you think I'd make you do… _please me with your tongue_?" he mocked, his voice laced with incredulity. "I was thinking somewhere along the lines of making you lick fire… or, even better, I'd make you lick shit."

Hermione's entire face reddened even more, if that were possible. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, disabling her to make any biting retort. She was so stupid as to have come to _that_ conclusion. How could she even have thought of _that_?

"You amuse me, Granger. You actually think that I would be so desperate for a quick fuck that I would stoop so low as to consider someone of _your_ likes?"

Beyond disgraced, Hermione's eyes threatened to tear; she could feel the burning sensation that indicated so. "Get out. GET OUT!" Her voice cracked.

Malfoy's only response was that infamous smirk, before he stood up in one fluid motion and left the room. Before he could fully leave the room, however, he lingered for a short while at the door.

"This room will be your chambers, Mudblood – unless I decree otherwise," he simply said and finally left, shutting the door behind him, his newly-spirited behavior clearly indicating that he very much enjoyed humiliating Hermione.

As soon as she was left alone, long-suppressed tears left the corners of Hermione's eyes in huge torrents. Her shoulders heaved up and down with the effort of her rapid breaths and sobs, and, pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped both arms around herself, squeezing her eyes shut and imagining that the pair of arms belonged to someone else, someone out there who cared about her.

She wouldn't let Draco Malfoy see this, see how he'd made her feel so angry yet afraid of him at the same time. She wouldn't let him relish in the feel that she'd been affected by his words and threats. She would forever wallow in silent tears and mask her true feelings, and show him that she was as strong as the Gryffindor lion that she truly was. She vowed never to show her _new master_ any signs of weakness.

She'd only spent less than an hour with the man, and yet this was what resulted in that short encounter. She didn't think she could bear more threats, more insults, more humiliation. She dreaded to even think what would come in the following days…

If only Voldemort hadn't realized too soon that Harry had been Horcrux-hunting, and decided to track him down before Harry had the chance to destroy his split soul… Why had Fate been so cruel and unfair when she let Evil triumph over the Good?

She felt drained and so very tired, both physically and emotionally. Soon, the merciful arms of sleep cocooned her in its arms, but that didn't prevent the unforgiving nature of dreams to haunt her.

"_Hermione, go! Get out of here!"_

"_No – I won't leave you –"_

"_You have to! He's coming for me!"_

"_I can help –"_

"_DAMMIT, HERMIONE! LISTEN TO ME!" He took the time to turn around and make eye contact with her, forcing her to see the intensity of his request in his bright green eyes. "Ron asked me to keep you safe, alright? That was his dying wish! You love Ron, don't you?! Do this for him!"_

"_Harry, please –" Tears streaked down her cheeks and trickled off her chin._

_An _Avada Kedavra_ sent over their heads forced them both to duck as the jet of green light exploded behind Harry._

"_For Ron. For me. I won't stand losing another best friend when I know it should've been me who was supposed to be killed."_

_Harry could sense the wavering in her thoughts, so he chanced upon that short moment of doubts and uncertainties. "Keep yourself safe, okay? Apparate out of here as fast as you can and keep running, don't look back," he instructed._

"_But – you're going to –"_

"_I should've died seventeen years ago, anyway. It doesn't make a difference at all." His tone of voice was grim and even. "Now go! You're wasting time!"_

"_Harry –"_

_But he'd pushed her off him before she even had the chance to finish her protest and she'd had no choice but to run then. And she did what he'd instructed her to do. She willed her mind to think of a location as she prepared to Apparate._

_Another jet of green light shot past her, and then a high-pitched, cruel laughter._

"_Ah, yes. The Boy who Lived, lived no more."_

_And then the nauseating, squeezing sensation engulfed her, smothering her screams of anguish._

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When Hermione woke up, she was drenched to the bone in her own bodily fluids, her hair matted against her sweaty forehead. The memory was weeks old, but to her vulnerable mind as she slept, it lingered on as though it were still fresh.

She found herself curled up in a corner of an unfamiliar room, her cheek pressed against the cold, cobbled stone floor. At first she felt disoriented, unsure as to why she was there in the first place, but she later on put two and two together and realized that she was in the Malfoy Manor, where she was forced to slave for the passing year or so. Sighing, she sat up and stretched, wincing a little bit at the pain on her abused shoulder. Her neck and spine felt quite sore, too, from having slept on the hard floor all night.

The morning sunlight shining faintly through the solitary window in her chambers aided her while she inspected her tiny room. A small bed took up most of the space, next to it a tiny dresser and another door that undoubtedly led to the bathroom. That cheered her up a bit, the thought that at least she didn't have to share a communal bathroom with any Malfoy. The entire room looked very unkempt (there were cobwebs here and there, and very, very dusty furniture), as it obviously was the mansion's cellar before, but Hermione thought that with some cleaning the room would eventually come to her liking. After all, she didn't mind the tiny space as long as it was clean. Not that she would enjoy living in the Malfoys' lair anyway.

She knew she would have to face the inevitable soon so, with her heart heavy, she got up from where she sat and trudged towards the bathroom, dreading about her first day of working for the Malfoys and what they had in store for her – more specifically, Draco. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the memory of their first encounter last night. After she'd washed the grime and filth off her face and decided she looked presentable enough (she could, of course, not do anything about those cuts and scratches present on her face, as well as that bruise on her right cheekbone), she got out to look in the dresser drawer for something to wear.

Dawn gave way to morning as she decided upon an old pair of sweatpants and a holey T-shirt (since there wasn't anything better to wear) and was just tying her bushy hair up into a ponytail when Draco, uninvited, burst into the room.

"Apparently people here have no manners and do not know how to knock," said Hermione with sarcasm, although she had to admit that her heart nearly jumped out of her chest at the abruptness of his arrival.

"This is my house, so I have no intention of knocking at any door, considering the rooms are all mine," replied Draco coolly. He threw a wrapped, lumpy package at the foot of her bed. "Take those ridiculous things off and wear what I gave you."

"Why?" Hermione looked down at her worn, yet very comfortable, garments, in puzzlement. "What's wrong with what I have on?"

"Didn't I make myself clear last night? You do not question me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Then get out while I change," she snapped, when he still didn't move.

Draco smirked. "Are you still suggesting that I might have some sort of attraction to you _sexually_?" he sneered, implying last night's conversation about her _tongue_. "Apparently, Weasel's certainly stroked your ego far too much. I'm _so_ sorry to hear he's dead." But his tone wasn't sorry at all – more like malicious.

Her cheeks burned with mortification and humiliation, but she regained herself fairly well. Her heart stung with the mention of her deceased boyfriend. "I might begin to think as such, since you're not making any move to get out of my room."

"Technically, _my_ room, Granger. But since I don't want you to think I would stoop so low as to consider a Mudblood, I'll let you have your way for now." But he was smirking as he said that, before turning around to leave. "Oh, and I don't want to hear any complaining from your part, about what you have to wear," he added, before fully shutting the door behind him, "or I'll be happy to beat you up again."

She looked suspiciously at his retreating back before fully turning her attention to the lumpy parcel atop her bed. When she picked it up, it surprised her to feel that it was very light and didn't feel like there were clothes in it at all. With curiosity backing her every movement, she tore the brown paper wrapping off and let the material drop to her feet.

_Was Malfoy fucking kidding_? she thought with mortification as her jaw dropped.

The parcel contained nothing else except a pair of lacy black lingerie, the lace being the sheerest material she'd ever seen.

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[A/N: School's out for the holidays! Hopefully I'll be able to update this fic regularly. :D

I'm having so much _fun_ (mwahahaha) portraying the badass Draco, because I hate fics that make him too nice. Hope you liked the chapter and the fic so far… Don't forget to leave your review! Thanks for reading. :)

Also, thanks to **Cajunwitch** for my first review for this fic! (I don't know why, there's just something about getting that first review that makes me happy.) :D –Nina]


	3. Shamed

[A/N: I don't normally do this (put the AN before the chapter) but I would just like to introduce my new and AWESOME beta reader, Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**)! Thank you so much for your help; this chapter (and fic!) wouldn't have been as great if it weren't for you. :)]

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**CHAPTER 3: Shamed**

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She hadn't moved from where she stood even after a few minutes later, still staring at the heap of lingerie at the floor. Her throat closed with panic at the image of what Draco was about to make her do.

He wasn't serious, was he? He wasn't seriously asking her to parade semi-naked at his mansion!

But he did. There was no doubt about that. He didn't appear to be joking as he commanded her to wear what he'd given her.

But why would he do it? What was his ulterior motive?

With trembling fingers, Hermione bent down to reach for the flimsy material. If she knew better, she would say that this material came from the finest lingerie boutique in the whole world, but never had she worn such an… _arousing_ pair of underwear. There was no doubt in her mind that any man who laid eyes upon her as she wore this wouldn't feel the least bit sexual. Any self-respecting man's eyes would dance at this. Why was Draco asking her to wear this?

She thought she could only guess just why exactly Draco'd given her this… and her eyes burned with unshed, humiliated tears. What was worse, she wouldn't be able to do anything about it. She _could not_ do anything about it. One of Voldemort's many decrees clearly stated that all Purebloods were able to do whatever they wanted with their Mudblood slave.

If she showed any resistance, she would drop dead that very moment. And no one would seek justice for her demise. No one would give a damn.

As what Draco clearly shoved in her face just the previous night.

But she was not going to let him have his way around her. No one alive might give a damn about her, but Harry and Ron and all those Order members – deceased they might be – cared. And, dead as they were, they had been far better people than those shit Death Eaters alive today. Her friends would've wanted her to fight tooth and nail for her pride, her dignity, _herself_, and she would fight. For them. She was strong enough for that. She was strong enough to save herself. Harry might be gone, but his contagious fighting spirit would forever reside in her heart.

Damn it, she would fight Draco. She didn't care if he killed her; it was so much better than dying an undignified death.

Probably thinking that he'd waited long enough, Draco once again forced himself, uninvited, into Hermione's tiny chamber. Hermione swallowed to rid herself of the sandy dryness at her throat and turned to face her master with trained indifference and possibly a little indignation, and Draco's eyebrows shot up into his untrimmed bangs, his face cynical and incredulous.

"Stubborn, aren't we?" said Draco, smirking.

Hermione couldn't remember any time when she'd hated the man's smirk even more. Fueled with anger and with all the strength she could conjure, she hurled the lingerie in Draco's direction, hitting him squarely across the chest. "Take your shit back, Malfoy," she hissed.

He caught the material in his hand – the dark lace was an odd contrast to his pale skin – before it could successfully come in contact with the floor. "Didn't you like it?" he asked innocently. "It was a gift for my girlfriend, but she has so many beautiful things already. It was a shame to dispose of this, and I figured you might get more use out of it." Suddenly, he grinned, showing a set of blindingly beautiful teeth. "Besides, I want you looking _presentable_ in my mansion… and in my presence."

Hermione almost choked on her own breath. "I think these clothes are presentable enough, thank you very much."

Draco cocked his ear in her direction, pretending not to have heard her. "Is that defiance I'm hearing from _my_ slave's mouth? You are well aware of the consequences of your disobedience, am I right?"

"Yes. Yes, I am defying your rules, _Master_," said Hermione boldly through gritted teeth. "Would you kill me now?"

Draco gave a tiny, sarcastic shake of his head. "I wouldn't do you that favor even if you _begged_ for it, Mudblood. I know I have to do it eventually, but I think I'll have some fun before I do so." He threw the underwear back across the room, hitting the floor at her feet. "Now, are you wearing it or not?"

"I'd rather die."

"I see."

Within short strides Draco was poised right in front of her before she even had a chance to register his movements. His hands flew to her shoulders, bunching the worn T-shirt sleeves in his hands and ripping it from her body quite easily, issuing a gasp from her throat. Her frail arms moved quickly to hide her bared bosom as waves of tears flooded her eyes once more. She'd hand-washed her solitary bra just this morning for filth from last night soiled it, and hung it to dry, so Draco now had an image of how her upper body looked naked. One of the traitorous tears even had the gall to streak down her cheek and trickle off her chin.

Where was her valor when she needed it? She vowed to herself that she'd never show this bastard any sign of weakness… What was it about this man that could reduce her to a whimpering mess? Was it because of the fact that she'd lost her independence, that he somehow controlled her life now, like a puppet's puppeteer?

Sucking in a huge breath, Hermione willed her tear ducts not to emit any more embarrassing tears.

Draco's heaving breaths stirred the loose hair from her ponytail as soon as he'd succeeded in degrading her. "Could do with what I gave you now, couldn't you?" he hissed.

Not able to come up with any scathing retort, Hermione could only look up at him with disgusted, hate-filled eyes. To her surprise, Draco actually recoiled, but he regained himself very quickly and glared at her now with possibly more menace than before.

"You look at me that way again and I'll gouge your eyes out, slave," he threatened with an ugly sneer. "Your first call of duty for this mansion is to serve breakfast every morning in your… _uniform_." He smirked. "Merlin knows I need my usual dose of morning entertainment, what with Father sulking – anyway, I would get a good laugh out of seeing you stumble around the dining hall, Granger."

She wanted very much to rejoin, but she knew it was pointless. He would just find another way to insult her. Not wanting to give into another round of verbal sparring with him, she kept her mouth shut and her face stoic.

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her silence, but did not voice upon his suspicions. Instead, he said, "I'm expecting you upstairs in ten minutes," in a curt tone, but didn't leave.

"Can you please leave?" asked Hermione in frustration, after a stretched silence.

He smirked. "Ooh, I like the sound of you begging."

"Just get out."

With one last mocking smile, the blond wizard turned to leave, but paused for a while at the threshold, much like how he did last night. He turned around to look around Hermione's tiny chamber again and raised his wand, much to Hermione's dismay.

"You're not the only genius in this room, Granger," said Draco with a mocking sneer, and chanted _Accio clothes_! while pointing the tip at the tiny dresser. The wooden doors opened with a bang and worn clothes flew out of the drawers and into Draco's greedy hands. Hermione smothered the look of disappointment on her face – she'd planned on donning some respectable clothes as soon as he was out of sight – but didn't do so quite successfully.

With a final laugh, Draco finally left Hermione alone.

_He is going to regret this_, thought Hermione viciously. _One of these days, I'll get even…_

_.  
_

* * *

_.  
_

Exactly ten minutes later, Hermione, clad in her _work clothes_, manoeuvered her way around the kitchen door to appear at the majestic dining hall of the Malfoy manor, laden with a silver tray bearing the bastard family's breakfast. If there hadn't been butterflies in her stomach, she would've taken the time to gape at the grand mansion. After all, everything, from the antique, elegant furnishings to the intricate, architectural design of the walls, pieced together to form a house most people would fancy. Every piece of furniture in the mansion, no matter what size, looked as though it might cost a fortune. Even the rugs – those plush, luxurious rugs – looked too costly to be stepped on. She'd always been aware of the fact that the Malfoys were wealthy – Draco certainly flaunted it much too often back while they had been in school – she just never realized that they were _unreasonably_ wealthy.

Her mouth watered with the scent that wafted from the tray she was carrying. Those house-elves working in the manor's kitchen – those house-elves she'd stubbornly fought for and had even gotten a few people to share her vision of not exploiting them – certainly knew how to cook well. It made her feel disappointed with herself to see that her efforts were fruitless, though. With Voldemort in control of the wizarding world now, house-elves remained exploited. Just like her and the rest of the Mudbloods.

She felt slightly envious of the elves, even. At least they still had their innate magic, whilst she had no wand and could not defend herself. She certainly could've used her wand to hex Draco for what he did to her earlier.

Her stomach grumbled again. It had been so long a time that she'd eaten decently, having made to do with scraps of food in the past weeks. She'd be damned if she took any of this food, though. Draco would, no doubt, punish her for even _touching_ his immaculate food.

Merlin, but she wanted to goad him to the point wherein he would be reduced to a ball of whimpering mess. She wanted revenge for him shaming her. Those two fights they'd had recently were, obviously, all in his favor.

Hermione refused to believe he'd already won, though. Draco was nothing but a coward, anyway, acting all mighty just because he knew she didn't stand a chance against him and his wand.

She just needed to grab a hold of that weapon… and then she would be free from his unpleasantness.

As soon as she appeared at the threshold of the dining hall, seated at the far end (obviously the head) of the long, dark oak table were the aristocratic Lucius Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa, seated next to him. Their ice-blond hair cast a luminous glow from the elaborate chandelier that hung above the table. Lucius was lightly skimming through the day's edition of the _Daily Prophet_, his face passive, while his wife sat back in her high-backed chair, her face equally circumspect, her dainty hands crossed over her lap.

Just when Hermione began to wonder what might be taking Draco too long, a _CRACK_! sounded in the far end of the room, and out tumbled Draco with a… _guest_, her giggling and he holding her hand. Hermione stood back and tried to conceal her presence, wanting to observe first.

_Holy shit._

The unmistakable vile sight of Draco's dark-haired girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson, her childhood rival, made Hermione's day turn out for the worse. Pansy hadn't changed much; she still had the same alabaster skin in sharp contrast to her almost-midnight blue short hair, and her pale blue eyes remained cold as ever. And she still clung onto Draco's arm like how she did back at school – possessive, and maybe just a tiny bit – okay, maybe a _lot_ – obsessive.

Throughout the racket his son and his girlfriend made, Lucius showed disinterest and a little bit of irritation, choosing to continue to read the day's paper, while Narcissa turned her eyes to acknowledge his son's presence.

"What's the big surprise?" asked Pansy, batting her eyelashes unflatteringly at Draco as they made to take their seats.

"You'll see," said Draco, grinning, and then turned to his mother. "Mother, hasn't the Mudblood servant come down yet?"

Hermione swallowed nervously. Surprise, was she?

Narcissa pursed her rouged lips thoughtfully. "I thought I saw her lingering by the threshold earlier."

Draco turned his head in the direction his mother had indicated. "Mudblood!" he called. "Come out!"

With a defeated sigh, Hermione made to enter the dining hall of the Malfoy Manor, her heart thudding against her ribcage erratically.

Draco's eyes widened and darkened considerably as soon as he caught sight of Hermione enter the room, his gray eyes roaming around her scantily-clad figure. She felt her entire body blush and her heartbeat quicken at such bold male scrutiny and wished for the earth to swallow her up. After a few seconds – which, to Hermione, seemed like long hours – Draco's face broke into his signature smirk as he motioned for her to come to him. Hermione had half a mind to disobey, but the reminder of what he'd done to her in her chambers lingered in her mind. Suppose he ripped something else other than her bra…

Pansy, on the other hand, looked appalled. Her thick lips hung open and she looked as though her jaw might drop to the floor. Her head snapped quickly to look at Draco before fixing Hermione again with that hard glare she'd grown quite accustomed to. If looks could kill, she'd be dead by now. Hermione chose not to look at her and focused her attention instead on the blond wizard.

"Granger," Draco drawled, as Hermione came closer. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to him. "Who'd have thought _you'd_ have a body beneath all those layers of school robes?"

She refused to look at him, concentrating instead on her dirty toenails. A tremor coursed through the length of her spine at his unwanted touch. She willed herself to speak, but her mouth was so dry and there was a lump in her throat the size of a lemon.

"Draco!" chastised Pansy with evident insecurity, her voice high-pitched. "What is this? What is that Granger's wearing? This is your _surprise_?!"

"Are you jealous?" assumed Draco with slight mockery. "I certainly hope you aren't, for I'm just having innocent fun with the Mudblood. And, yes, _she_ is your surprise. Although I am pleasantly surprised _myself_ at how your lingerie seems to fit her well, Pans." He gave Hermione a lecherous leer that made Hermione's insides do a somersault.

Pansy looked as though she just swallowed a watermelon whole. "She won't be looking this way when I'm through with her –"

The crackling of papers took Hermione's attention off of her toes (and the bickering sweethearts) and made her turn to look at the older Malfoys, specifically the male who was eyeing his son with an irritated expression as he shook his head.

"Touching a Mudblood –"

"Language, Lucius," reprimanded his wife daintily.

"– just when I thought my son could sink no lower," he went on in a low voice, ignoring his wife, but the whole table nevertheless heard him. "What the bloody hell are you making the Mudblood wear, Draco?!" he barked out, his eyes quickly scanning her figure, but to her relief there was no sign of lust. "I might've made her your obligation, seeing as how you can't do anything much without _failing_… but you know I don't allow… _toys_ in this table."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at such an open condemnation to her most hated person, which she disguised as a small cough.

Draco, for obvious reasons, stiffened at the disproving sound of his father's voice. "Don't worry, Father," the blond bastard quickly said. "The Mudblood's just here to serve us breakfast, which is to be her assignment every morning." When Hermione didn't make a move, Draco raised a scornful eyebrow at her. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Hermione seemed to rouse from her trance then and began to serve the Malfoys (and the Parkinson) their breakfast, remembering her manners and starting at the head of the table. Lucius looked quite apprehensively at her and wrinkled his aristocratic nose at her presence, which irked her a little bit, but to her surprise he didn't say a word at all. The glass dishes made a sharp clink against the wooden surface of the table, a sound that seemed to almost echo in the enclosed space. In all the while at her slavery there was silence, but Draco's derisive smirk adorned his features, something that made Hermione's blood reach its boiling point. She purposefully served Draco the last dish, taking deliberate movements in lifting it out of the silver tray, her mind deciding upon whether or not she would _actually_ do what she wished to.

It would get her in trouble, no doubt about that, but wasn't she already in trouble as it was? It would make no difference. Hell, it might even make her _happy_.

Draco's breakfast was poised in the air when Hermione made her decision. With boldness – or foolishness, whatever _it_ was – she leaned her face right in front of his dish, looked the blond bastard right in the eye, and _spat_ on his breakfast. She used her meanest, loudest spit.

"Breakfast is served," said Hermione spitefully through clenched teeth, depositing Draco's dish down onto the table with a slam.

Time seemed to stop then. Apparently, none of them expected such rash behavior to come from their Mudblood _servant_. Lucius stared at her as though she had five heads, his eyebrows raised; while Narcissa gave a dainty gasp. Pansy and Draco both remained transfixed – Pansy looking at her boyfriend with her jaw hanging open and Draco staring with an almost morbid fascination at his sullied food. For a moment, not one of them said – or did – anything, much less breathed.

It was Pansy who broke the stretched-out silence first. "You. Little. _Bitch_!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet.

She raised a pale hand to hit her, but Hermione didn't make any move in dodging her assault, stunned herself by what she just did. The rush of adrenaline pumped at her veins, made her feel quite alive again. But what pleased her the most was that Draco seemed to be the most staggered and taken aback out of all of them, a reaction that she'd wanted to get, a reaction that seemed to be enough to compensate for whatever he'd done to her last night and this morning.

Pansy's hand left a mark on her already-bruised cheek, but she couldn't care less.

"Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!" shrieked Pansy in between slaps.

But then, Draco stood up, towering both over Hermione and his girlfriend. He kept his eyes downcast but threw his napkin down onto the table with a force that made Hermione shiver.

"I'd like to talk to you, Mudblood," said Draco with malicious intent, his tone of voice still even, before he stepped out of his chair and out of the room. Pansy made a move to follow, but Draco hissed, "_Alone_," without turning to look back.

Hermione's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as she made to follow her master with shaky legs, towards her doom.

She heard Lucius chuckle behind her retreating back. "I prefer the attitude of that daring Mudblood over our spineless son, Narcissa," he said with an air of reverence.

There was no verbal response from his wife, and Hermione could only guess that she'd given him a sharp glare in reply.

* * *

[A/N: Okay, hope the chapter was fine… Filler chapters are always so blah. :( (hope you're liking the fic so far! *nervous gulp*)

First of all, I'd like to apologize for the LONG wait. (I know I've said in a previous AN that I would try to update over the holidays, so I'm so sorry for not sticking to my word…) Hope the chapter made up for it… So sorry… *pulls on a sad puppy-dog face*

Secondly, there might not be any more quick updates over the following weeks… As much as I'd like to ignore University shit, I can't. So sorry!

Thirdly, loads of thanks to those who have favorited, followed, and especially to those who have reviewed the past few chapters! XX

Lastly, HUGE thanks to Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**) for looking over this chappie for me! I am forever grateful.

Review please! And thanks for reading. :) –Nina]


	4. Hated

_Don't you try to take me down,  
Don't you try to take me over,  
Won't you try to break me?  
The complexities moving in,  
And I feel that I do not have the strength,  
Tragedies plaguing me solemnly  
It's affecting my will_

_Grim Goodbye_, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

.

**CHAPTER 4: Hated**

****.

Leaning casually against the stucco surface of the wall, Draco stood in the den just outside the dining hall, his face carefully circumspect. His gray eyes were downcast – he seemed fixated on the elaborate designs of the plush emerald green carpet. Hermione stood before him, shuffling her feet anxiously, with butterflies even fluttering in the pit of her stomach – but she refused to show these weak emotions. Instead, she stood proudly, that little bit of dignity radiating from her stance (despite looking like a whore). She lifted her chin and stared at Draco, and although he didn't meet her gaze head-on, a corner of his mouth twitched unpleasantly.

It was Draco who broke the heated silence between them. "Poppy," he said in a low, controlled voice.

Hermione felt confused at first, wondering what – or who – Poppy might be, but suddenly, a _CRACK_! sounded just behind the blond wizard. A tiny house-elf wearing what seemed to her a shorn and dirty table cloth appeared behind him, her ball-like eyes darting around the room. Hermione gave the elf a kind smile, but the long-nosed creature shifted her gaze away quickly and turned to look at the blond wizard tentatively. She began to shuffle those long feet of hers too, much like what Hermione was doing now. "Y-yes, young Master?" squeaked Poppy, her high-pitched elf voice trembling. Hermione wasn't the only one afraid of Malfoy, it seemed.

Draco took a deep breath – probably to calm himself – before speaking. "Owl the Ministry for me. Tell them I won't be reporting to the meeting today because of… pressing matters," he commanded gruffly. "That will be all."

Poppy bowed low until the tip of her long nose touched the carpeted floor. "Yes, young Master," she squeaked once more, and with another _CRACK_!, she Disapparated.

Horror pooled into the depths of Hermione's soul. Was her rude gesture at breakfast enough for Draco to choose to skip work for the day and punish her instead? Merlin, what did Draco Malfoy have in store for her? Her imagination started to reel. Suddenly, she had a fleeting vision of chains bound at her wrists, something cloth-like gagging her mouth, leather whips lashing at her skin, sharp objects piercing through her flesh… if Draco truly _had_ lived up to his Death Eater status, those images were not too far-fetched then…

But her fury at the man overrode all sense of irrational fear. She silently berated herself for letting her imagination run wild. She shouldn't fear Malfoy, she furiously reminded herself. He never got the better of her while they'd been in Hogwarts and she wouldn't let him _now_. If his _father_, the one person he looked up to with utmost reverence, had openly berated him at the table, she could do the same to the bastard as well because, after all, she meant nothing to him. Maybe she could even wipe that conceited smirk off of his face once and for all.

Before rounding on Hermione, Draco made sure that the doors were closed with one swish of his wand. Hermione envied him slightly for his flawless nonverbal magic. "You spat in my food," he finally spoke to her in a foreboding tone. "I could have you flogged for your insolence."

Hermione snorted snidely. "Your father is _still_ ashamed of you, Malfoy," she pointed out heartlessly, choosing to ignore his hovering threat. She spoke with a mocking sympathetic tone. "You should be worrying about _that_, and not about your Mudblood servant's antics at the breakfast table."

"Shut up," he hissed in a low voice.

Hermione was pleased to hear the slight trembling in a voice that he tried so hard to keep calm. "Of course, I really can't blame him for wanting to disown you. Coupled with the fact that you're the biggest asshole, the Malfoy ancestry has never had an heir who was a bigger _failure_."

"I'm warning you, Mudblood – one more word and I'll –"

"What?" challenged Hermione boldly, presenting to him her cheek. "Slap me around, hit me, tell me I'm nothing – you aren't gaining anything by belittling me, other than pumping your _deflated_ ego. You're pitiful, really," she went on, "because you haven't gotten yourself an actual, fruitful hobby. You enjoy pushing people around because you've never been good at anything else but tormenting others, so don't act all mighty just because –"

"I SAID SHUT THE _FUCK_ UP!" bellowed Draco, his voice rising for the first time, and before Hermione could realize that she'd hit a rather sensitive nerve, Draco had pushed her against the wall, pinning her against his warm body. For some reason, the close contact with the blond made her heart thud louder and harder against her ribcage than when he'd harassed her earlier in her own chambers. His furious breaths stirred the loose hairs from her ponytail, made the back of her neck prickle, and she wished that she'd been dressed in more substantial clothes so that the way the tops of her ample breasts heaved with her heavy breaths wasn't too visible – or in this case, _tempting_.

Draco didn't seem to mind, though. Instead, his top lip curled with evident displeasure, and he raised a hand to pull at the bunch of hair at her ponytail, yanking her head up again much like how he did last night. "I told you NEVER to bring that subject up again," he growled.

Hermione repressed the squeal of pain that threatened to escape her lips. The way Draco held her was so very different from how he held her last night – this time it was more painful somehow. "Can't bear to hear the fact that you're a coward?" she retorted.

"Will you miss your voice once it's gone, Mudblood? A twitch of my wand and it's _Silencio_ for you –"

"I never realized you couldn't keep up with simple verbal sparring."

He yanked her hair this time to a more excruciating extent; her scalp throbbed with the burning sensation. When she still didn't release any sound that indicated pain, he pulled harder and harder until a betraying squeak left her lips.

"My patience and your breaths are _very_ limited," he hissed. He tugged harder at her hair. "Does it hurt?" he taunted. "Do you want me to stop? _Beg_ for it, Mudblood."

"I won't beg you for anything," she squeaked, and was pleased when her strained voice still came off sounding haughty and proud.

He smirked. "Really, now?" he said, and he tugged harder at her hair until Hermione screamed in pain.

"Does it hurt?" he asked louder this time, making sure he was heard despite the screams. "Does it hurt… _princess_?"

That brought Hermione's screams up short and she looked, her amber eyes tear-filled, up at Draco in surprise.

"Isn't it painful, _princess_?" mocked Draco again, drawing out the last word slowly.

"Don't call me that." Hermione's voice slightly trembled.

"You are in no position to order me around, _princess_." He grinned broadly, wickedly, showing a set of perfect ivory teeth.

"I said don't call me that!" Now tears really were escaping the edge of Hermione's eyes.

"Do you miss him, Granger? Do you miss Muggle _daddy_?" Hermione couldn't help but wince at _that_ particular word. "That's right, Granger. I heard your daddy call you _princess_ at the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of second year," he stated harshly, making her eyes swell with the sudden rush of painful memories. In the back of her mind, it surprised her to know that he recalled so far back. "Too bad for you that he's dead. My father might be… _ashamed_ of me, as you said so yourself, but at least he's alive; while your daddy's remnants rot in the ground, never to be seen or heard from again. Now, who do you think is more… _pitiful_ between the two of us?"

Hermione saw red through her tears, and before she could come to terms with her succeeding actions she found herself clenching a fist and swinging an arm forward. The white-hard knuckles of her fist hit his jaw with a loud pop and his face twisted to the side. Taken aback, he dropped his hold on her hair with a muttered expletive.

Adrenaline and possibly idiotic valor pumped at her system. She just wasn't satisfied with that solitary punch. She was adamant on the idea of causing him as much pain as was possible, as much pain as he cost her, even curling her small hands into fists and pummeling his solid chest with hard smacks. "_Fuck_. _You_!" she said angrily through the tears streaming down her cheeks, still hitting him. "You don't have any _right_ to call me that!"

One never did anything logical while upset or angry.

With one hard shove Draco pushed her off him and she fell to the ground, crushed, with her head bowed in defeat. The scuffle resulted in the loosening of her ponytail and her wild curly hair fell to both sides to frame her body like curtains.

In frustration, Hermione hit the carpeted floor with her clenched fists, bruising herself in the process, finding no real outcome. Why wasn't he affected by it, by _her_, when his mere _words_ affected her so much? He considered her attacks like those of a tiny bird's clawing the muzzle of a dangerous wolf. Defeated, her legs curled underneath her as her shoulders shook with huge sobs, and fat tears dropped off her chin and trickled at the stilled, tightly-clasped hands on her lap. She suddenly felt much, much older than her mere eighteen years.

"I want to go home," Hermione blubbered, her words mingling with powerful, gut-wrenching sobs. "I want to go _home_."

Draco didn't even falter in his harsh, cruel retort. "You have no home."

Hermione couldn't respond to that, sobs the only reply sounding from her clenched lips. Suddenly, Draco crouched down right in front of where she sat, weaved his long, pale fingers almost gently into her mane of brown hair and prodded her head up until he could look her in the eye. The dead, apathetic gray eyes of a soulless man met her fiery amber ones, which until this moment had shone with nothing but courage. Now however, the fire seemed to flicker and die slowly, like flame without oxygen. As she looked into the eyes of the personification of Hated, foul words – words she normally wouldn't utter – abruptly spilled from her mouth.

"You're… _despicable_," she spat out, her voice trembling with emotion. "And I actually thought you weren't so horrible after all when Harry'd said you wouldn't have killed Dumbledore – when you didn't sell us out to Bellatrix –"

Draco smirked, unaffected. "I don't give a bloody hell about what you Mudbloods think of me," he said coolly.

"I was wrong about you being _good_ –"

"Serves you right for being an insufferable know-it-all."

"I _loathe_ you," she went on spitefully. Her vision of his vile face cleared when tears leaked out of her eyes. "With my very soul I despise you –"

Draco cut her off once more, this time with a sneer. "_You loathe me_," he mocked her. "Isn't that something new." He paused for a while and leaned his face closer to hers before continuing, unweaving his fingers from her hair and letting them trail along her jaw with a faux gentleness. When he spoke again bitterness radiated from his tone of voice. "But tell me this: if you felt _differently_, that would be hell of a lot more complicated, wouldn't it?"

Hermione's mouth slammed shut, not finding any concrete comeback. For once they agreed with each other, but she was not about to tell him so.

"See? It's easier this way, between the both of us." And with that, Draco dropped his hold on her as though it burned him, stood up, and walked away without a backward glance. Moments later, when Hermione found the innate strength to move from where she sat, she got up, too. She retired to her chambers with sluggish movements, despite the day only half done. She wanted to sleep through the day – but found herself wetting her pillow instead with salty tears, draining her entire body of its fluid. And it was only her first morning in her new personal hell.

Neither individual had noticed that someone else was a witness to their intimate scuffle, as she peered through the small crack between door and wall – and sometimes, spectators perceived much, much more than the actual participants.

She'd noticed the way the blond wizard craved for close contact as he'd pinned his servant beneath his own body against the wall, and the way his hand curved protectively around the brunette's bare waist as he tugged painfully at her hair – his action, plainly, contradicted the other. The way his eyes pooled with black lust as he'd gazed upon the scantily-clad Mudblood. The way the witch, although aggravated, shivered from her oppressor's very touch, craving for contact herself as she'd hit his jaw with her hand. The way she kept lowering her lids and glancing furtively upon his parted lips so close to hers.

The way he'd said _princess_ with a soft undertone that only someone who knew him well enough would recognize…

The way she'd said she despised him, yet didn't shy away in the _least_ from the light grazing of his fingertips upon her skin…

With her mouth curled in a derisive, scornful sneer, Pansy Parkinson's eyes darkened with rage and jealousy at the denied – although _obvious_ – attraction between the doomed pair.

.

* * *

[A/N: So, here's the new chapter, hope it's not too bad… *nervous gulp* (sorry for taking quite some time to update!)

Just want to thank all the readers who've favorited, alert-listed, and especially those who've reviewed! I am thankful that this one is receiving such great feedback from you people.

HUGE thanks again to my beta Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**) for looking over this chapter for me. You're the best. :)

Drop me a line and tell me what you thought of the chapter! Thanks for reading. :) –Nina]


	5. Concealed

_Who has to know__  
The way she feels inside (inside)__  
Those thoughts I can't deny (deny)__  
These sleeping dogs won't lie (won't lie)__  
And now I try to lie__  
It's eating me apart__  
Trace this life out_

_Dirty Little Secret_, All-American Rejects

**CHAPTER 5: Concealed**

Draco didn't bother to talk to Hermione anymore after that breakfast mêlée. Draco didn't bother to check on her, period. Instead, he sent the house-elf, Poppy, to instruct her on what she should do for the day. Mostly, her to-do list consisted of cleaning and dusting the large mansion (without magic, of course), and for the days that soon followed after, Hermione eventually got used to living as a slave to the Malfoys. She didn't mind the tedious work, as long as she didn't see that blond bastard again.

But long hours spent inside the mansion with no company – Poppy was too scared of the Malfoys to talk to her, even when Hermione tried to make friends with her – made her relatively lonely. No, the whole mansion _was_ lonely. True, they had all the money in the world, but the Malfoy manor lacked the welcome and warmth of a loving household. Both Lucius and Narcissa were cold and unrevealing of their love for another, as though they were embarrassed about showing such emotion, which made Hermione miss her own parents terribly. She missed her father kissing her mother when he thought she wasn't looking, and she missed the blush that would wash over her mother's cheeks at that ministration.

Pansy spent quite some time in the mansion, too, but to Hermione's great surprise she avoided her like someone who had some infectious disease. Yet Hermione couldn't help but notice the dark rage in the raven-haired's eyes whenever she served them their meals at the dinner table, and Hermione couldn't quite figure out what she had done to warrant those sorts of glares. Nonetheless, chills ran up and down her spine at Pansy's presence.

She wasn't subject to wearing that ridiculous undergarment, either, which made her happy. Still, there was something… _intimate_ about having to wear Draco's old Slytherin school robes, and it made her quite uncomfortable. But then, just as what her mother always told her, beggars can't be choosers. Plenty of times she thought she felt Draco's presence nearby, but quickly discerned that it was just the leftover scent of the expensive perfume from his school robes. She grudgingly conceded that the man had great taste in perfume – crisp and spicy and very, very manly. The type of fragrance that could leave any girl stunned and tripping over her own two feet.

Escaping didn't completely leave her mind either, while she spent long hours in her tiny room during lazy afternoons.

She knew for a fact that the temporary peace – although lonely at that – was too good to be true. Anytime soon, Draco would return to his rude, arrogant, boastful self, and she didn't want to be around when that happened again. She didn't want to show him again just how much he affected her. She wouldn't allow him that sort of sadistic pleasure.

She wasn't allowed outside of the mansion, but that didn't mean she couldn't find an escape route _inside_. While she cleaned, her eyes wandered to every doorway and window, the gears in her brain working, formulating some sort of plan to escape. Poppy kept a close watch on her – under Draco's orders, no doubt. She later on figured that there were only two doors that led outside the mansion: the majestic double front doors and the backdoor leading to the forest. If she could somehow get outside using the backdoor, then she would be able to use the dense thicket of trees to obscure her while she fled. That was, of course, if Poppy relented her close inspection of her, which she didn't.

One morning a week later, something out of the ordinary happened: Narcissa Malfoy summoned Hermione to her room. When Hermione got to the master bedroom to check what the Malfoy matron wanted, she found her sitting at her vanity table, wearing a silk fuchsia robe. She had both hands tucked under her chin as her elbows rested upon the table, and her blonde hair fell like a sheeting waterfall down her back, shining so luminously that Hermione felt a twinge of jealousy. Patting her untamed curls nervously, she cleared her throat to make her presence known to the older witch.

The blonde witch peered through the mirror to catch Hermione's reflection, watching her as she anxiously shuffled both her feet by the doorway. Nodding slightly, she motioned for Hermione to come closer and when she stood just behind her shoulder, she handed her one of the finest things Hermione had ever seen in her entire life: a silver-handled brush, with tiny gemstones embedded into the handle.

"Brush my hair for me," commanded Narcissa, her voice expressionless.

Hermione thought that such a command was Muggle-ish, as she knew that magicfolk could certainly use their wands to perform that task. Still, she complied, taking the surprisingly light brush into her hand and running it through her mistress's silky platinum hair. Narcissa probably noticed the confusion upon her face, for she said later on, "I prefer having someone else brush my hair, instead of using my wand. There's just something about having a living, breathing soul do it for me. It makes my hair feel more… alive."

Hermione hummed, although she didn't quite grasp the idea of it. Hair was hair; you either loved it or hated it. In her case, she frequently detested her wild mane of brown curly hair.

"My sisters usually did it for me, but… ah, well, it's Poppy's task now, but Draco's sent her off for some errand. You'll have to do."

Silence was welcomed again when Hermione chose not to reply to that, her mind wandering over to the Black sisters.

"You're the Muggle-born from Draco's year, aren't you?" asked Narcissa, who seemed intent on making small talk.

"Yes," replied Hermione, going back to the crown of Narcissa's blond hair and brushing with light strokes.

"He used to talk about you. He called you the '_Mudblood prodigy_,' and I used to tell him off for using such an… offensive term." She wrinkled her nose.

"Did he throw in an insult or two?" she retorted sarcastically. She bit her tongue after saying that, reminding herself that the Malfoy matron had not done anything remotely bad to her and feeling that she didn't deserve such crass treatment.

But to her surprise, Narcissa laughed. She laughed in such a delicate, aristocratic way, keeping her chin down and her lips tightly pressed together. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly underneath the silk robe. "Ah, Draco… how rushed everything must have been for him, losing his childhood so early. How I wished I would've been able to protect him from all that –" But she suddenly cut herself off, thinking that she probably said too much.

Hermione didn't make any indication that she thought much over what she said, but her brain's gears were working at top speed. It took almost all of her willpower not to emit a derisive snort. Draco didn't need protection; he was as cruel and heartless as those Death Eaters even _before_ becoming one, she wanted to point out. He'd made her school years run like hell!

"I know what you're thinking. Draco isn't all that bad," said Narcissa, sticking up for her child the way any mother would. "He might be a trifle bit rude at times –"

"A lot rude," muttered Hermione under her breath.

"– but he's just… very…" Narcissa paused, seemingly lost with the right term, "…_confused_."

Hermione couldn't help the snort that escaped her mouth then. Confusion was hardly the synonym for compliance.

Somehow, Narcissa felt the need to defend his son, and she stared at Hermione with her eyebrows slightly crossed. "He's… switched himself off," she began to explain feebly. "He's created such a dense wall around himself that people have trouble penetrating what really lies behind the façade; that's why people often end up misconstruing his intentions. Sometimes I wish he didn't brood so much over what others thought of him and let himself loose, even just once. Maybe then he could be happy. He works so hard to live up to what he thinks a Malfoy should be that he's ended up losing what really matters in the process. He's ended up losing himself.

"You have no idea how hard it is for a mother, seeing her son that way. Seeing her son unhappy – or worse, _convincing_ himself that he's happy. Because nothing is more heartbreaking to a mother than seeing her child try and work so hard for something she knows he doesn't want." She said all these with a sad tone.

She then peered closer to the mirror, and although Hermione pretended not to notice her intense scrutiny, she felt those piercing blue eyes upon her face. A slight gasp escaped her rouged lips.

"You're the girl that Bella –"

Hermione barked out a mirthless laugh, surprised that she recognized her. "You wanna see the scar for proof?"

Narcissa cringed. "No, thank you." She paused. "You're… Harry Potter's friend."

Hermione didn't answer immediately. "Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Hermione barked out another mirthless laugh. "It seems your kind isn't."

"I never wanted any of this, but I can't say the same for others," said Narcissa in a whisper. "Yes, I do believe strongly in blood purity, I admit that –" Hermione tried very hard not to snort at this, "– but never did I want my husband nor my son to be pawns in the Dark Lord's game. I never wanted them to become Death Eaters. Bella often told me how foolish I was and how similar I was to our blood traitor sister… but is it foolish for a woman to wish for nothing but a peaceful, happy life with her family?

"Lucius and I might not have been in love with each other when we first got married, but I learned to like him through the years, despite his slightly-flawed preconceptions – preconceptions that he's drilled into Draco's mind as well. I know I really can't change him, but, just _maybe_, if I'd been strong enough to voice out what I believed in – that I didn't like what he the notions was feeding our son – then maybe all this wouldn't have happened. Maybe we wouldn't have been involved in such a situation. I just want my Draco back. I want my husband back. And with those, if I were to die tomorrow… then I would be very happy."

And then, Narcissa sighed wearily. Hermione couldn't help but feel sorry for her – while she might be a Malfoy, she was still a victim of circumstance, circumstances that weren't in her control. Just like any mother, she hoped for nothing but the best for her family. Suddenly, a pang of what felt like pity erupted in the depths of her heart. At least she still had her ideals, her morals, something to fight for. While these people, people like Narcissa, Lucius, and maybe even Draco himself remained lost, despite the fact that Voldemort had won the war. In a war, people who won still ended up losing something in exchange.

Narcissa kept her thoughts to herself later on, and after a few more strokes of the hairbrush against her platinum hair in silence she let Hermione go. Hermione's thoughts were reeling as she left the room to retire to her chambers.

Damn Godric's faith in goodness, why was her hate towards this family – more particularly the Malfoy _heir_ – slowly withering?

.

* * *

.

That same afternoon as Hermione was just about to finish her daily routine of cleaning, she decided to walk around the mansion. After all, Lucius and Draco had both left for work at the Ministry, and Narcissa had left to attend a social gathering with her friends. No one else was home except for Poppy the house-elf, and since there was no rule that stated that she wasn't allowed to explore the mansion anyway, she didn't see why she couldn't do what she wished to.

The entrance hall was breathtaking, to say the least. Each fixture looked as though it was trying to outshine the other. To her dismay, the portraits in the walls (of Malfoy ancestry, no doubt) turned their aristocratic noses up disdainfully and whispered at the backs of their hands to each other at her presence. Typical. It looked as though even condescension towards her blood status was also inherited just like their ice blond hair and pale pallor, she thought bitterly.

She ascended the grand staircase to meander through the first floor landing, which had a few subtly-elegant wooden doors (which were all locked); finding nothing interesting except a china vase atop a pedestal whose bouquet of blooming flowers had glittering blue petals. She reached out to touch one of them, wanting to know how it would feel like at her fingertips, only for it to wither at her touch. That was when she fled the landing and proceeded to floor number two, fearing that Draco would blame her for it once he saw the withered rose.

The second floor landing was quite similar to the first, only this time the entire hallway was bare except for the plush carpet underneath her bare feet and the glass chandelier above her head. No painting, no vase with magical withering glittering flowers. The elegant wooden doors at either end of the landing were just how she'd anticipated it: locked.

The third and final landing held nothing in it except some more wooden doors which were all locked. She found herself wondering what a family of three would need so many rooms for, and quickly discerned that it was really none of her business.

_Guess that's the Malfoy manor for you_, she thought to herself. She turned around and descended the staircase slowly with sluggish feet. Returning to her chambers was the only thing left to do. As soon as she got down to the mansion's dungeons, she noticed something she hadn't before, although she'd been down there more times than she cared to count. At the end of the perpetually-dark corridor was another door, a door that wouldn't be perceived easily by naked eyes. Still, there was no way that she could mistake that faint outline for any other, and as she inched closer to it, her assumptions were right.

The door must've been enchanted so well with a Concealment Charm, she thought to herself, admiring such flawless wandwork. The color of the wall blended so easily with the door that it didn't surprise her that she hadn't noticed the passage until then. No one would be able to notice the door if they hadn't known it was there in the first place. Squinting, her eyes spanned around the seemingly-bare wall and finally found the knob. She took a deep breath and grasped it, relieved when it didn't respond violently to an intruder. It felt very cool to the touch and made her shiver slightly.

Harry Potter's contagious curiosity and thirst for adventure got the better of her, and so, with her heart thudding violently, she turned the knob and was heavily surprised to see that it wasn't locked at all.

The room was roughly the size of her small room and almost bare – except for a concealed object right in the center with a heavy white cloth – slightly gray with dust – draped over it. She ran her fingers against the thick material, thinking whether or not she should reveal what lay underneath it. She made her decision by grasping the cloth in one hand and letting the heavy fabric pool to the floor. Dust particles danced in the air as the cloth fell with a muffled _thump_.

Obscured from the eyes of the mansion's inhabitants was a magnificent, antique mirror with an ornate gold frame. Its height brushed the ceiling and it stood on two clawed feet. Hermione wondered what such a beauty was doing hidden in a dark room and was circling it slowly when an inscription that was carved around the top of the frame caught her attention.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on woshi._

_The Mirror of Erised_, she realized with a tiny gasp.

She'd never encountered the Mirror herself, having only heard Harry's descriptions of it while they'd been in their First Year, but she knew what the Mirror did to anyone who looked into it. She'd read about it. So it didn't surprise her when she saw that she wasn't alone as she gazed at her reflection; there was her mother and father; Harry, Ron, and Ginny; Luna; Tonks – basically everyone she'd loved and cared for. The images in the Mirror were smiling at her – but their smiles stirred something deep within her gut. Something wet and warm fell down her cheek as her knees wobbled with emotion; she fell down gracelessly in front of the faux reflection of the people and continued staring.

It was impossible to imagine that these people had been alive and with her only a few months back; those pleasant memories of being in their presence seemed to belong to someone else entirely, something someone else had lived through. An entirely different time, a time when there was still that possibility that the world would not be completely consumed in darkness. A time when Harry gave hope.

The images did nothing but smile and Hermione smiled back through the tears, despite the fact that she knew whatever this Mirror gave was neither knowledge nor truth. She couldn't help but feel greedy for the tiniest moment and just wished to imagine what it would be like to melt into the glass surface and have them back. To have the tiniest moment of escape.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on woshi._

_I show not your face but your heart's desire._

_Victory_.

They should've won the War. The world didn't deserve to wallow in empty darkness as much as Voldemort didn't deserve to rule it. Muggle-borns didn't deserve to be treated like vermin as much as truly good people like Harry and Luna didn't deserve to die.

Everyone was crowded around her, circling her slight frame, but Harry's reflection was nearer to her for some reason. Harry's piercing green eyes stared right through his spectacles and to her soul, and although he smiled so kindly at her, Hermione lost it. Lost everything she'd tried so hard to contain. Lost everything until she was a tumbling, bubbling creature of guilt.

Hermione tried to convince herself that Harry wanted nothing else but keep her safe, that he would feel upset when he found out that she regretted listening to him. But she could not do so successfully.

She shouldn't have left him alone that night he died. She should've stayed with him and helped him, despite him asking her to leave and escape. A month after his demise, seeing Harry's vision again, she could truly come face to face with the phantom that she'd tried so very hard to repress. She felt so sick to her stomach when she realized that he'd died while she fled to safety.

How many times had she immersed herself in the what-ifs?

If she'd been there, Harry Potter, the Chosen One, would not have died. If she'd stayed, he would've had help. If she hadn't been so selfish and only thought of her own security, things would've ended differently.

Harry crouched down where she sat and palmed her shoulder gently, still wearing that kind smile. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and buried her face at the crevice between her knees. She wasn't worthy at all of Harry's kindness. Best friends stood up for each other, but she had not done for him what she was sure he would've done for her.

"I'm sorry," she blubbered out to him, wishing that he heard her. Her thick, trembling voice sounded eerily in the empty space. "I'm sorry I'd been selfish. I should've helped you – I shouldn't have run away – but – but –" and then sobs overtook her, disabling her to speak.

.

* * *

.

[A/N: Boring, huh? :( I know it's lacking the Dramione drama we all want (boo!), but I PROMISE we'll see more of our favorite couple in the next chapter. :) (I just needed to get a few scenes done…) You all might be wondering why the Mirror is with the Malfoys, and I'll answer that _soon_. All I can tell you right now is that it's quite significant to the story. :P

I just want to thank everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed DL. (I didn't expect it would get good feedback at all, as I know most people don't like reading depressing fics…) Anyway, special shout out to **Triwizard2013** for that insightful review! I've never hit a guy before, so I really had no idea… thanks for that! (my slip-up made me blush a little bit… heehee ^^)

And, HUGE thanks to my beta Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**)! Drop by her page and give her my love :)

Review (if you feel like it)! And thanks for reading. –Nina]


	6. Bruised

_Hold your heart into this darkness  
Will it ever be the light to shine you out  
Or fail and leave you stranded?  
Gravity  
Don't mean too much to me  
Is this our destiny?  
This world is after me, after you  
Run away, like it was yesterday,  
And we could run away,  
Run away from here_

_Bulletproof Heart_, My Chemical Romance

**CHAPTER 6: Bruised**

It was dark outside by the time Hermione got up and left the Mirror of Erised after watching it with a morbid fascination for four solid hours (not that she noticed the time). She grudgingly draped the grayish cloth back over it again, not wanting to leave at all, but she couldn't stay any longer as she knew the Malfoys would begin to wonder why they hadn't seen her all day. Immediately, she retired to her chambers, not feeling the need to have her small ration of dinner. Her stomach and mind was full of nothing but the images that danced around her eyes that afternoon, and she could faintly remember Harry's own account when he'd first seen the Mirror himself: he'd had nightmares. That was hardly comforting, she thought, because already she felt the haunting imagery of those false people living in the Mirror.

The tiny bed moaned in protest as she set her weight upon it with a sigh and lay down, shutting her eyes and the images out unsuccessfully. Stupid mirror. But she knew she would inevitably come back. Soon. Seeing her friends again (despite the circumstance) festered like a growing addiction to heroin, in her opinion. It was a fix she couldn't rid herself of. While she knew it did no good for her, she could not stop herself from wanting it, either.

She couldn't help but relish in the temporary pleasure it gave her. Momentary sense of the thought that she wasn't alone in this world. Momentary vision that she wasn't the only one fighting an already-lost battle. Momentary… ease of guilt. Because in front of that Mirror, she could pretend that she'd done the right thing and not fled when Harry'd needed her the most. Pretend that everyone in the Mirror still existed, and that they, Hermione included, lived a peaceful life, a life that they all deserved.

She grabbed the pillow from under her head and buried her face in it, blocking herself out from the world. Guilt, like fear, had a way of worming itself intrusively into one's heart and crushing it into its voracious hands. Guilt and regret. Well, that was certainly something new. She normally didn't regret nor feel guilty of any of the things she'd done; she planned things out thoroughly so as not to have to do so. She took a deep breath through her lungs, and found she could not do so successfully as her airways were blocked by the pillow that she pushed very tightly over her face.

She hated her life, then. Hated all the decisions she'd made, those decisions resulting in her ending up working as a slave to the Malfoys. Or, to put it into simpler terms, she hated _herself_.

And speaking of hatred…

She pulled herself out of her reclining position when she heard the slight creak of a twisting doorknob and came face-to-face with Draco and his rankling smirk. His left jaw had a faint yellow mark (hardly recognizable against his pale skin), which she could only guess was the remnant of her popping him there with her knuckles just last week. Come to think of it, _he_ hadn't been the only one to come out of that fight scathed. Her knuckles were painfully swollen the next day after their brawl.

_Please. Not tonight_, she thought desperately.

"I didn't see you at dinner tonight, Mudblood," was Draco's drawled-out greeting. "I missed you."

He flashed a toothy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, causing unnecessary shivers to run up and down Hermione's spine.

"I've missed _insulting_ you, that is," he continued, leaning ever so irritatingly against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, leaving the door wide open. His ice-blond hair was playfully tousled. "Somehow the past few days for me have not been enjoyable as I wasn't able to result you in a state of pitiful tears."

Her nostrils flared. Guilt and anger did not mix well together. "I'm not in the mood for your shit tonight, Malfoy, or any other night."

He smirked. "I was rather looking forward to hearing you scream at me as a – how do you say it… a – _sedative_?" He sighed dramatically. "Today at the Ministry had been incredibly stressful –"

"I don't care, Malfoy!" Hermione cut him off impatiently. "I'm just not in the mood to talk to you – or even _look_ at you tonight!"

Draco cocked one pale brow. "Normally you'd be bouncing in your seat waiting for just the right moment to take me on, Granger. What brought on this change?"

Hermione scowled. Her grip on the pillow tightened, making the skin stretch over her pointed knuckles. "It's none of your damn business so if you _please_, just leave me alone."

"Why? Still brooding over the fact that Brown got laid with Weasley and not you?" he asked sarcastically, smirking.

Images of Ron smiling at her took form into every nook and cranny of her mind. He holding her hand, and dropping it shyly. Usually followed by the fiery blush spreading over his cheeks that blended so well with his red hair. His scattered freckles – all were memories now, memories that existed only inside the Mirror…

"Shut up," she said through clenched teeth. Her voice was so low that she wasn't sure that he'd heard her.

"Oh, that's right, Weasley's _dead_." He drawled out the words slowly, cruelly. "Just like _Weaslette_ is dead, just like your _parents_ are dead, just like _Potter_ is dead –"

In a blur of movement, she was suddenly on her feet and glaring angrily at the intruder that was in her quarters. The pillow fell off her grasp and landed with a slight bounce to the floor. "I thought I told you to SHUT UP!" she yelled fiercely. Her chest heaved as she clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides. Her heart felt constricted. Somehow the way he said it made it sound to her as though their untimely demise was her fault, or maybe that was just because that was exactly how she felt as of the moment. It _was_ her bloody fault that they'd all died, and now Draco was hanging it like a sword over her head, too.

Draco's upper lip curled into an ugly sneer, undaunted. He uncrossed his arms from his chest and glared down at her. "Have you forgotten your status? You are a _slave_; therefore you are in no position to command me. You lost all your rights the moment you stepped into this household."

"You know what? I don't care! It doesn't matter to me that I have no rights, because whether you like it or not I _will_ speak my mind, and you will listen to me! Or you'll find yourself wishing that you did," said Hermione firmly, her eyes blazing.

Draco's were the complete opposite: his stormy gray eyes were frozen with apathy. He cocked one pale brow. "Really, now? Why, what can you do about it?" he mocked.

She knew he spoke nothing but the terrible truth: there was absolutely _nothing_ she could do about it. But she was not going to give him the pleasure of knowing that. "Why should I tell you?" she shot back arrogantly. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Because there's nothing to tell." Draco bobbed his head with a haughty nod. "You know there's nothing you can do, yet you stubbornly refuse to wrap your skull around that rather uncomplicated truth. You used to flaunt your brains every chance you got while we'd been in school – now I think you're a lot thicker than Goyle." His voice dropped an octave lower, so he seemed then to be only speaking in a soft murmur. "The Dark Lord reigns. Purebloods – _we_ – are superior. Mudbloods – _you_ – are slaves to us. Get over it."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Draco went on.

"Filthy, good-for-nothing Mudbloods," he said in a contemptuous sneer. "I'd always wondered why He chose to keep you all alive, for I see no valid rationale in that action. Of course, I am in no position to question His reasons." He let his icy gaze travel up and down her body in the most condescending manner. "You and your kind do nothing but foul this world, and if it were up to me, I would've annihilated your race first chance I got. I don't know how you can live with your head held up that high on your neck, Granger, for you are a miserable excuse for a human being. I don't know how you can bloody well live with yourself because you are _pathetic_." He spat on the ground.

Acute anger surged through Hermione's chest and pooled at her tongue. It took the majority of her self-control not to scream at him like a deranged maniac. "Do you _hear_ yourself, Malfoy? It isn't _us_ who have been fouling this world – it's _you_ and your kind!" she replied hotly, throwing her hands up in agitation. "Using someone's bloodline as a basis for whether or not that person is worthy; _that's_ what's pathetic! Judging before getting the chance to actually know someone; that's what's pathetic! We can't help having Muggle parentage, but we are people too, perhaps even better people than you and your kind will ever be! _We_. _Are_. _Not_. _Filth_! We may have nothing in this world ruled by darkness, but at least we are fair and just. At least we are able to treat people equally." Her breaths puffed out. "I can't say the same for you."

"And you think treating people _equally_ will get you any say in this world 'ruled by darkness,' as you put it so?" Draco shot back, a pale eyebrow disappearing into his untrimmed bangs. "It gets you nowhere, Granger."

"Maybe not, but at least I can die knowing that I had been true to myself and not let what society tells me take control over my own decisions, unlike what _some_ cowards here would do."

Draco's carefully-circumspect gray eyes betrayed him for a moment; they both narrowed into tiny slits. "I think that isn't cowardly at all; more like honoring self-preservation above all else," he said in a low voice. Suddenly, he smirked. "You Gryffindors have always prided yourselves in your bravery, but I think that you all dive headfirst into combat because not only are you impatient but also lack brains, and therefore do not know how to think your actions through. In other words, you know nothing about self-preservation. You would plunge into a lake with an excited scream without pausing first to test how cold or deep the water is. That kind of attitude gets you _killed_ easily."

Hermione snorted. "I would much rather prefer to be brave than slimy like a Slytherin. Sneakiness can only get you so far."

Draco smirked impassively. "And since we're on the fringe of cowards, I think what's cowardly is stubbornly refusing to believe the situation one has been thrust into – or, to put it in simpler terms, stubbornly refusing to believe _reality_. _That's_ what's cowardly," he repeated once more, for emphasis.

_That_ was the word that she refused to acknowledge, the word that hovered relentlessly in her mind when she'd first laid eyes upon the Mirror. The word that she knew best represented what she'd done in the past month when she'd fled to safety and left her best friend alone to die. The word that best represented herself.

She didn't take heed of her legs moving forward as they propelled her angrily towards Malfoy. What mattered to her was her fury at the blond man. Her lips curled with displeasure and her blood reached its boiling point. "Don't you _dare_ call me a coward," she stated slowly, the clenched fists at her sides trembling with hardly-suppressed rage.

"It's what you are, Granger," replied Draco, shrugging coolly, as he stared her down. "Or are you too cowardly to admit that as well?"

A growl ripped from her bared teeth. In hindsight, she wondered if she'd ever done that before. Her chest heaved up and down with strained breaths. "_Fuck_ you, Malfoy. I am so sick and tired of you treating me like shit since day one!"

And then her eyes zeroed in on the fading bruise upon his jaw, and she found herself acting just as how she did a week ago: she swung an arm forward with every muscle in her body and aimed for the same jaw, wanting to double the mark she'd already made there.

But Draco was prepared this time. Before her fist could close the distance halfway to his chin his long, pale fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist in a vice-like grip and didn't let go, cutting off her blood circulation there.

Silver eyes locked with amber ones.

For the first time since she'd started living with him, those steely eyes _blazed_. And she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Sure, he'd been angry with her many, many times, but never had there been a time when she'd felt any strong sentiment radiating beneath his cold exterior.

Now, however, it only took a gaze to make Hermione's insides tremble, to make her realize in horror that he was so very furious.

Draco stared down at her with utter revulsion. "I won't give you the satisfaction of hitting my face twice, Mudblood," he said in a low, disgusted voice.

For some unknown reason, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She was unable to do anything but glare back at him.

Their gazes held for a second too long before he dropped his hold on her wrist as though it disgusted him to be in such close proximity with her, and turned to walk the way he'd come without another word, back up to the mansion. Hermione's shoulders lifted up and down heavily as her eyes gazed upon his retreating back, and eventually down to her wrist. His long fingers had embedded pale marks upon her flesh that were quickly turning red, and tomorrow she knew these marks would be telltale bruises.

They were even, then. He'd bruised her many times excluding this one, and she'd bruised him in exchange a week ago.

She ran the fingers of her other hand over her abused wrist gently and watched as they created soothing circles upon her flesh, although her mind wasn't really paying attention to it.

What caught her interest was the way his eyes appeared as they stared upon her. At the alteration that made itself known.

Because for the first time, Draco's indifference slipped.

.

* * *

.

… _not let what society tells me take control over my own decisions…_

The biggest load of bullshit Draco'd heard in a long time. And mind you, he'd heard a lot of them.

What irked him the most was the fact that he _hadn't_ heard any bullshit. The Mudblood _had_ justifiable reasoning to back her objections against his race. The girl _had_ concrete argument that matched his. No, not matched. _Questioned_. Salazar forgive him for admitting this, but the Mudblood slave _was_ smart. Too smart for her own good. He'd been foolish not to give her credit for brains which his own peer lacked.

So why didn't he send her back and request for a new Mudblood the moment he realized he'd gotten _her_ as his slave? He knew she would be nothing but a constant migraine to him. So why didn't he?

Thinking about the reason made his head pound violently and so he stopped, rubbing the back of his neck tensely.

He took a deep breath as he moved to sit at the edge of his bed and took his head into his hands. For some reason, he felt… he _felt_. He hadn't felt _that_ in a long time. _Felt_ something. Since his… _failure_ to comply with the task assigned to him by the Dark Lord that fateful night at the Astronomy Tower, he'd learned not to let his feelings get in the way of things anymore. The only reason that he'd been unsuccessful that night was because he _felt_ for the old nutter as he stared him down with his wand aloft. Dumbledore was at his mercy, but he couldn't seem to get those two words out. _Avada Kedavra_. What he'd said instead was—

_I have to kill you… or he's going to kill me._

He felt guilt, and regret, and terror, and fright that night: feelings that piled on top of each other and the next thing he knew, _indecision_ took center stage, and he was seriously considering on taking the old man's request of hiding him away with his mother.

He was glad he didn't take up his offer, for there _was_ no offer. Not anymore. The old man was dead, and his White Tomb at Hogwarts had been blown up to smithereens by his Lord. But Draco wished he'd been the one to have killed Dumbledore, rather than that wretched traitor whom they'd found out later on to be a double-crosser and working for the Order as well. _Snape_.

And that was another stupid mistake he'd made, too. He'd trusted the goddamn traitor. He'd been the Slytherin Head of House – of _course_ he'd trusted him. Thus making everyone else think that he wasn't that good a judge of character.

When the Dark Lord found out about this treachery, Draco was given the task to rid the Death Eaters of this turncoat. Voldemort especially thought that it would be hilarious, watching a professor get killed by his own student. Despite the long duration of time that had passed since this incident, he couldn't force himself to forget things. But what he did force himself was feel nothing about the memory.

He couldn't escape his dreams though, as they continued to haunt him at his most vulnerable: while he slept. And they were oftentimes so… _vivid_.

"_Draco," Snape had said in a whisper as his dark eyes roamed over his face in an attempt to make him look at him in the eye. Those black robes that had always billowed behind him as he strode around the dungeons in Hogwarts were coated with gray soot, and a deep gash was bleeding profusely upon his left cheek. He'd been lying pitifully upon the long table in the Malfoy dining hall, both legs broken, supporting himself up on one elbow in an effort to look at him. He was missing his entire left arm. The Carrows, upon cornering him at the Forbidden Forest while he was scouring the foliage for some healing herbs, had… _played_ with him before presenting him to Lord Voldemort._

_Draco'd refused to meet his gaze. Once again, his entire body felt cold, but for some strange reason he was sweating bullets. The weather outside was nowhere near hot, even._

_Things had been extensively more difficult as the Dark Lord himself, along with a handful of Death Eaters, were witnessing everything with blank stares. Some of them even looked voracious and greedy for death. Draco hadn't known then which one he preferred more: for people to regard death so casually without even batting an eyelash, or for people to actually _crave_ for death with perverse enjoyment._

_He'd been internally cursing himself as he took his attention away from the spectators to stare at his shaking wand arm. How difficult was it to voice out two simple words? He couldn't get his lips to move past the "_Av_."_

"_This isn't what you want," Snape had continued, still in that same murmur. "Albus – Albus died to save you. He died to save your soul. He _knows_, Draco. He knows you don't want this."_

_Gray orbs had met with dark ones for the flimsiest of moments, and Draco was once again considering… vacillating…_

_But the sound of someone's throat clearing had brought him back to what he was supposed to be doing._

_Draco'd twisted his head around to stare at his father, the one who had obviously made the sound. He was seated at the middle of the table, his face impassive, his gray eyes boring into his. His mother was at his side, not looking at him, not looking at anybody. She was simply sitting there, her blue eyes fixed upon the dark oak table. But she was biting her lip._

_Although Lucius's face had displayed no hint of emotion, Draco knew what subtext his father wanted to impart upon him._

_If he weren't to do this correctly, his father would forever disown and be ashamed of him. As much as he hadn't wanted to kill, he also found out that did not want to disappoint his father. Not again. He didn't want age-old tradition to be broken and all because of his cowardice. Malfoys were known to be one of the most respected Pureblood families in the wizarding world; it wouldn't do for them to become the laughingstocks of the entire Death Eater army._

_Male pride told him that he didn't want to taint the immaculate Malfoy name the way he did so many times already…_

_He took a deep breath and tried again. "_Av_…"_

"_Draco, please," Snape had whispered, as he'd reached out to touch him with one feeble arm. "Show Dumbledore that his death wasn't for naught –"_

"_Oh, for Salazar's sake," hissed Voldemort in that high-pitched voice. Those red slits had flashed even more inhumanly, if that were possible. "Pathetic boy. Dolohov!"_

_With his tongue rolling over his front teeth Antonin Dolohov had risen from his seat greedily and took his wand out of his robe pocket to aim it heartlessly against an unarmed man. Draco was just about to put his relentlessly-shaking wand arm down when he'd felt his father's eyes upon him._

_Nothing but disappointment there._

_And that was the whiplash. The final card. The turning point._

_He hadn't wanted to forever be the cause of his father's disappointment. Of _anyone's_ disappointment._

_Before Draco knew what he was doing, he'd raised that wand arm again._

"_I'll do it." For the first time during the night, his tone of voice was steady._

_Everyone had turned their heads to stare, but not one of them seemed convinced._

_Dolohov had looked like someone who'd just lost a game of wizards' chess to a troll, and he took his seat with a huff, the legs of the chair scraping against the linoleum floor. Voldemort looked vacantly at him, and then gestured a pale hand towards Snape._

_Before Snape's haunting eyes could creep into his heart and unnerve him, though, he'd spoken in an even tone that he almost quite didn't recognize as his own._

"Avada Kedavra."

And since then, something inside him came undone. His Potions professor would be the last person he would _ever_ disappoint.

That was his first casualty, followed then by many more – some whose names and faces merged together to form a plethora of nightmares that meant nothing to him. Draco couldn't help but laugh at how easily he regarded death at his hands now, but the laughter came off sounding wrong and so very hollow in his ears. It probably didn't even sound like a laugh at all; it reminded him of Voldemort's cruel cackle when Snape'd finally breathed in his final breath. Involuntarily, he shivered.

Although he'd tried to regain himself after that first mistake of letting Dumbledore slip from his fingers that night – killed without grief, tortured without guilt – his fellow Death Eaters still regarded him as a failure. They, along with his own father, refused to give him credit for his efforts to amend for his previous mistake. The only reason why he'd remained in a mire of exile was because of his sodding feelings.

Having the _least_ bit of humanity was the biggest inconvenience to a Death Eater.

He'd rid himself of those said emotions long ago, and flung them in an abandoned chest in a small corner of his heart so as not to make that same mistake again. His own mother thought he was broken and beyond repair, but he knew better.

He was finally _healed_. Healed from all pain, free from all emotion that roused his conscience. And nothing, not even the Mudblood bitch, was going to alter that.

Draco's absent heart began to pump violently at the reminder of one bushy-haired slave.

Her words were like bruises. They weren't enough to cause any real damage, but they left a telltale mark. A mark that wouldn't easily be subsided, or concealed. And each time Draco morbidly replayed their argument in his mind was like prodding a finger on that tender spot of a new bruise.

… _not let what society tells me take control over my own decisions…_

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[A/N: Sorry for updating so late. Schoolwork just keeps getting in the way all the time… argh! I hope the chapter made up for it! I made it a bit longer to compensate for my shit updating hehe… (the word count is double my usual, LOL) Hope you like the chapter and how the fic is going… *nervous gulp*

Thanks to all the hits, favorites, follows, and reviews. Chocolate Frogs and Butterbeer to everyone!

And HUGE thanks again to Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**) for being an awesome beta and friend. (You know why! *wink*) Drop by her page and give her my love. :)

Review please (if you feel like it!). Thanks for reading, lovelies! :) –Nina]


	7. Warned

**CHAPTER 7: Warned**

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Hermione realized that she had just about had _enough_.

After the initial shock of her mind grasping the fact that she'd won an argument over her blond employer for the first time (it certainly did seem that way, because Draco had not come up with any sort of scathing remark before he'd left after glaring at her), she'd broken down in tears over his harsh words. That was a relief, because at least he had not seen her cry once more in front of him. The bastard had seen enough of her tears, had seen enough of her weakness.

_Coward_. The word replayed itself over and over in her mind, refusing to be thwarted, and the tears flowed down her cheeks like the torrents of a huge waterfall. She knew that she'd been cowardly that night she'd fled to safety and left Harry to die alone in the hands of a psychopath, but to have Draco point it out to her and shove it in her face was a fresh blow to her system. Sure, he hadn't known the reason why the "coward" thing had made her snap, but he need not know it for it to have the same effect.

She'd had enough of this shit-pit. Come tomorrow morning, she'd be a free girl once again. The Manor and its inhabitants would kill her if she didn't escape. Draco might not hurt her physically enough to send her to the grave literally, but he was slowly killing her spirit.

_And those eyes…_

Try as hard as she might, those steely gray eyes belonging to Draco Malfoy insidiously bored a hole through her skull despite her profusely wanting to forget them. It unnerved her that he was so very furious with her – after all, his temper was often always a problem – but it also made her feel somewhat… _triumphant_ in some way. Triumphant because _she'd_ managed to break down his icy demeanor, even for just the tiniest bit – her, his Mudblood slave. And that for the first time, he was affected by her words just as his words often disturbed her.

The idea of Draco regaining some of his humanity and conscience back made the vengeful side of her want to stay in the mansion longer to see how it would affect him. She was certain it wouldn't be a pretty transition, and she longed to see him suffer internally. But the matter of escaping was first and foremost in her mind.

It was a very foolish thing to try to escape a mansion that was heavily warded, she knew that. For all she knew, she could be burned or fried to a crisp the moment she came into contact with those wards – or worse, sent off to Draco again. Adrenaline began to pump through her veins at the thought of possible danger. To escape…

First, she needed a wand.

Hermione began to pace back and forth in her tiny room, the gears in her intellectual brain working. Yes, a wand was an absolute necessity. She'd read about a complex spell that could slightly impair the effects of a situated ward… but had not done so successfully when she'd tried to perform the spell a few months back. Now that she thought of it, it was a risk she was willing to take and a spell she was willing to perform again. Another positive aspect was, if she wasn't too successful with escaping _but_ had gotten hold of a wand, that was enough protection to her person while she stayed at the Manor. And enough to make Draco slightly flinch whenever he dared ridicule her again.

Yes, a wand… Hermione missed the sensation of magic coursing through her fingertips again. But where would she get one?

Hermione mulled it over. If she had a wand in possession, then that would mean she'd want to keep it as close to her person as possible even while she slept in case there was an emergency. It was quite improbable to have it kept in your pajama pocket while you slept, because that would not make for very comfortable sleep. Under the pillow was a possibility, and so was… at the nightstand, right next to the bed.

She unlocked the door of her tiny room very, very softly, although she knew that the Malfoys wouldn't have heard her anyway as they were all asleep at the top floors. She didn't feel sorry that she was finally leaving the Manor behind, nor did she take anything with her as she hadn't arrived with any possessions in the first place. She ascended the rickety "servant staircase," as she'd called it (no one else in the mansion uses it other than her) towards the main floor of the mansion, looked around if Poppy or any other living soul was around, and eventually up the steps of the marble staircase leading to the upper floors where the Malfoys slept.

She contemplated which wand she would try to… _obtain_. (She stubbornly refused to use the word "steal.") Since Lucius and Narcissa probably slept together, then that would mean another blond head she would have to worry about, if she were to try to get one of theirs. She didn't want to have to see Draco again – not if she could help it – but it seemed to be the only logical course of action to take. She'd bet on her life's savings (if she had any left) that he slept alone, thus making the job of obtaining his wand slightly easier. And, if she _were_ able to successfully grab a hold of his wand from right under his nose, it would be the most perfect form of spiting him.

Her heart thudded inside her ribcage as she ascended the marble staircase towards the topmost floor where she knew Draco's room to be. Her right palm was slippery with sweat as she gripped the stair railing for support, worried that her wobbly knees and quivering legs might not be enough to support her weight. With shaky steps, she made her way towards the elegant wooden door with the golden doorknob, and allowed herself to press her ear flat against the wood to listen to any form of movement issuing from inside.

Nothing. There was only silence.

Hoping against hope that the odds were in her favor, she gripped the doorknob tightly with that sweaty hand and turned it gently. She almost screamed in shock that Malfoy's room was not locked at all! With her heart thundering in her ears, she balanced her posture by holding on the doorframe with her other hand and turning the knob with as less noise as possible. The creaking of the door as it opened was inevitable. Hermione peered into the tiny crack.

Malfoy's room was bathed in darkness, the heavy drapes on his four-poster bed and curtains at the wide-open window ruffling with the slight midnight breeze. Draco, as she had expected, slept alone at the center of his large, comfortable bed, the covers enveloping his entire person except for the wild array of Malfoy blond hair that was peeking out from underneath it. Hermione squinted, trying to make out the shapes in spite of the darkness, and finally found what she had been looking for: Malfoy's wand at the nightstand, right next to his bed. Right where she expected it would be.

Hermione squeezed through the tiny crack she'd made at the door and tiptoed her way inside, her gaze darting from Malfoy to the wand simultaneously. She tried to lift her feet instead of drag it along the floor, as the entire floor of Malfoy's room was swathed in a luxurious carpet and she knew that the shuffling sound her feet would make would resound in the room. She bit her lips to stifle her nervous pants.

She was now right next to Draco's sleeping form, suppressing a squeak when he rolled over to his side and bared his face for her to see. The moonlight hit his face in the most melancholy, beautiful angle, as though he were a sculpted angel. She wouldn't admit it to anyone – wouldn't even tell her best friends Harry and Ron about it – but she'd always found Draco extremely handsome. There was always an air of aristocracy and regality in the way he stood and talked, and it seemed like he was unaware of it himself – which made it all the more attractive. Also, his gray eyes were shrewd and calculating, making him seem like he was always deep in his own thoughts. And his smirk – _the_ smirk – was devilishly sexy. Of course, whatever attraction she'd had for the blond wizard had evaporated the moment he opened his mouth (because he often had nothing good to say), and now she hated the man especially for trapping her in his home.

She regained control of her thoughts. No, Draco was a spoiled brat, and wasn't in any way fanciable. And despite the fact that he looked so vulnerable while he slept, Hermione forced herself not to feel sorry for robbing – no, _obtaining_ something she needed from the wizard.

There were only a few feet separating her and Draco's wand. If she reached her hand out, she would feel the smooth rod of wood at her fingertips, and so she did just that, reaching, reaching… _she got it_.

A warm hand clamped onto her wrist, the very same hand that had clamped onto her wrist just a mere hour ago.

Hermione had not even managed to feel triumph nor release a surprised whimper when Draco had pulled her and expertly pinned her atop the bed underneath his body, keeping a death hold on both of her wrists and pinning them beside her head. He pinioned her legs between his, so she wouldn't be able to kick him in that sensitive spot most men have. Those "shrewd" eyes, as she had referred to them, were narrowed in tiny slits and enraged. She couldn't even feel her hand still gripping his wand; he'd cut off her blood circulation there.

Draco was one of those men who were more comfortable with wearing pajama bottoms in bed. That was good; Hermione didn't think she could bear being pinned beneath him if Draco wore only his boxers or briefs to bed – or worse, nothing at all.

"What the fuck, Granger?!" he spat out. "You're stealing now?"

He was heavy and warm upon her. She tried to thrash against him and buck him off, but her efforts were futile. "Y-yes – I mean, no – I mean – I thought you were asleep!"

"Asleep or not, you're still stealing. What are you even doing in my room?" he demanded angrily. When Hermione didn't answer, Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Realization dawned on them. "You're stealing my wand. You want to escape." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she spat back. "I've had enough of you. I don't want to have to do anything with this shit-pit you call your house anymore!"

Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "How very cowardly of you, Granger. Not the sort of attitude I would expect, coming from a Gryffindor. Brave people don't weasel out of their predicament." He released the death hold he had on one of her wrists until his warm hand covered hers, the hand that held the wand. "Do you even know how to use this thing?" he sneered, moving his head so that his lips landed just at the shell of her ear.

A shiver ran through the entire length of Hermione's body when his soft, rose petal-like lips touched the sensitive skin of her ear. It was a shiver that wasn't at all objectionable, but rather oddly… pleasant.

"Let me teach you how to use a wand," Draco breathed malevolently. Goosebumps rose in her overly-sensitive flesh. "You grip it." His hands mimicked his words. "You point it at your adversary." He thrust their hands forward roughly, prodding the tip of his wand at his own neck. "You say '_Avada Kedavra_.' Go on. Say it."

Hermione's thoughts were scrambling all over the place. She found it very difficult to focus on Draco's words; she was suddenly just too _aware_ of things. She was aware of his warm breath tickling the hairs at the back of her neck, sending shivers all over her body; she was aware of how every line of his warm body fitted with every curve of hers; she was aware of how her heaving breasts were flushed against his rock-solid chest; and she could've sworn that something heavy and firm and _manly_ was prodding against her inner thigh. And she was suddenly aware of the warm tingles that fluttered in her naval, something she was certain she had not felt before…

Her body temperature rose along with her panting.

He withdrew his face from her ear and reappeared in her line of vision. Hermione was thankful it was dark; if not, he would've seen her abnormally colored face. He yanked the wand out of her flimsy grip and threw it behind him, the wooden rod engulfed once more in the darkness of the room. "Otherwise, you don't deserve to possess a wand, you stupid bint."

That remark sent Hermione tumbling back down to earth. "Fuck you," she said to him through gritted teeth.

Instead of getting angry, a sly smirk slowly upturned the corners of his mouth. That devilishly sexy smirk. "Or maybe this was all a ploy to get me to bed, huh, Granger?" he sneered. "Can't say you've failed at that. You've successfully gotten me in such a comfortable position." His gray eyes smoldered. "Congratulations."

Hermione's eyes widened and her breathing sped once more.

"What do you say, Granger? What do you say I kiss you right now?" said Draco in a low voice.

Merlin, what was happening? She'd always thought she had unwavering self-control, but why was she suddenly having such difficulty staying in control of _this_ particular situation? Was it because she _didn't_ want to control it, that she _wanted_ it to happen despite herself? Was it because the opportunity presented itself, the opportunity to just latch hungrily onto his lips just as how he'd offered it? She knew she should feel nothing but contempt for the wizard, but that prospect was suddenly too bloody difficult with his warm body pressing so firmly against hers and his voice seducing her into a state of incoherence. Why was it that suddenly, she forgot that she was _supposed_ to hate him?

Draco angled his head to ensure that his lips would land on hers, and began to close that short distance between their lips. Hermione's brain buzzed with the lack of oxygen; she couldn't think straight.

"Don't," she managed to choke out, but she barely heard herself over the thudding course of her own heartbeat.

Draco stopped just as her lips were just a hairsbreadth away from his, his warm tongue peeking out to lick leisurely at her trembling bottom lip. Hermione convulsed gracelessly underneath him and balled her hands tightly into fists, squeezing her eyes shut at the same time. It was only a matter of time before their lips would touch, and Hermione would be lost…

Despite her thundering heartbeat, she nevertheless heard the malicious intent in Draco's low chuckle. "You wish, _filthy Mudblood_."

Her eyes snapped open. That sent her back to sanity more effectively than being doused in a bucketful of ice water. She suddenly just wanted to bash Draco's face for all she was worth. More than that, she wanted to bash _herself_ for expecting the kiss to happen. No, for _wanting_ it to happen. She was supposed to be the brightest witch of her age, and now Draco had played her and she had wanted to be played. She wanted to cry.

And it also didn't help with anything the fact that at that exact moment, light flooded the interior of the dark bedroom as the bathroom door swung open.

Clad in a silken robe, Pansy Parkinson's face, previously a mask of shock, molded to one of pure disbelief and rage. How was it possible that Hermione had not heard her if she was in the bathroom the whole time she and Draco were…? Well, she had her stupid, thudding, loud, _untrustworthy_ heart to blame for that.

"Am I… _interrupting_ something?" Pansy asked in bitter sarcasm, flashing her cold eyes first on Draco, then lingering upon Hermione. Hermione then realized that they were in a compromising position and it didn't leave much to the imagination. (After all, Draco was top-naked and lying _on top_ of Hermione.) She started to struggle against Draco, and to her relief he didn't put up much of a fight. Draco chuckled under his breath as soon as she got to her feet and resumed his position in the middle of the bed, resting his back against the headboard, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere.

"I could leave now, if you want," said Pansy tersely, with as much venom as she could, "let you get back to what you were doing." Her tone obviously implied offense at her boyfriend's lack of concern at having been caught in such a compromising position with another woman – the Mudblood slave at that.

Draco dismissed Pansy's words with a careless wave of his hand. "You were always so jealous, Pans. You see, Granger here wanted to steal my wand and use it to escape; I caught her just in time. You can thank me for that later."

"And I don't suppose that's how she got into bed with you?" Pansy bit back sharply.

"You suppose correctly." Draco flashed Pansy an empty grin. The raven-haired witch noticeably stiffened and balled her fists at her sides. She didn't say anything more.

"You can go now, Mudblood," said Draco nonchalantly. "Oh, and don't get any more ideas into that bushy head of yours, you got me?"

Stiffly and with her face burning, Hermione made her way past Draco, past the large bed, and past Pansy towards the door of the bedroom.

She wished she hadn't looked in Pansy's direction. She wished she hadn't been morally good enough to have flashed her an apologetic look. If she didn't, then she could've spared herself all the fear and trepidation that would haunt her many days after…

Because when she looked at Pansy, her cold blue eyes positively _murdered_.

Hermione's insides trembled.

Forget Draco Malfoy. It looked as though she'd made another enemy… a more dangerous one at that.

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[A/N: Feel free to pelt me with rotten eggs and tomatoes. I deserve it.

After – what, four months? I really suck! – all I have for you guys is a shit chapter. I really am sorry. But I just became paranoid and insecure about my writing and didn't want to publish previous versions of chapter 7 because I felt they were all bad. It happens sometimes. So I really am sorry.

On a lighter note, thank you to all my readers and followers and favoriters and reviewers. Seriously, you guys are the best people in the world. *me hugging you all*

Oh yeah, there might be some errors in this chap as I didn't have a beta. Chaz (**wrackspurtsarereal**) has a lot going on at the moment and cannot beta, and I miss her like crazy. :( Hope everything's cool, dearie!

Let me know what you think and thanks for reading. :) –Nina (sorry again for the shit chapter and the late update)]


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